


The Nightmare

by junehour



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, Dreams and Nightmares, Gore, Implied Slash, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 05:31:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junehour/pseuds/junehour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>night•mare  n.<br/>1: a type of sleep disruption, or parasomnia, characterized by frightening psychological content<br/>2: provoke a feeling of imminent physical danger with a sensation of being trapped or suffocated<br/>3: a monster or evil spirit believed to oppress persons during sleep</p>
<p>Following the Fall, John found himself unable to escape from the plethora of nightmares that haunted his sleep. As time wore on, the harrowing images festered in his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Sets after Reichenbach Fall, spoilers ahead. Some lines are direct excerpts from the BBC TV Series. Massive thank you to my friend for helping me complete this story. I am forever in her debt.

 

“Fantasy abandoned by reason, produces impossible monsters: united with her, she is the mother of arts and the origin of marvels.”

— Francisco de Goya

 

 

The nightmares never stopped.

Time was a distant memory. It acquitted the mind from the shackles that which tethered humanity to its inherent domain. His physicality, while incapable of transcending the passage of time, remained defiant against the snare of Death’s embrace. And should his own flesh betray him in the wake of sickness or calamity, his thoughts will continue to thrive in the depths of the abyss.

Because of his convictions, however foolish, John’s conscience would not allow his reminisces of the past to be debased by a fallacy conjured by a spider’s intricate web. As the only individual who bore witness to _his_ fall, the doctor entrusted himself to his faith. Strongly believing that what _they_ had was not from a nefarious plot of his friend’s own devising, merely to win over a worn soldier’s favor. It was a false presumption as their mutual affiliation was nothing but deceitful. Yet, this ‘affiliation’ was remarkably far too genuine for it to be treated as falsehood. Sherlock, despite his flaws and aloof persona, John knew instinctively that his only companion valued their friendship above all else.

In fact, this underlying acceptance to their odd relationship had ushered Sherlock to the inevitable— the fall he owed. It had cost more than his friend’s life, the very reputation that which Sherlock had built as a consequence to his work, crumbled into a tasteless heap fashioned by a deadly adversary. Indeed, Sherlock’s heart had fallen into prey.

 

_I’ll burn you. I will burn… the heart out of you._

_I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one._

_Oh, but we both know that’s not quite true._

While John was loathed to admit that there was truth behind Moriarty’s words, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that caring was a fatal weakness.

He was so lost in his thoughts that John became oblivious of the gathering darkness that shrouded his perception; the nightmarish clarity clinging tenaciously to the present. The influence of Morpheus had lost its leverage, he was immensely engrossed by horrific images that blended so surely with reality. And so the desire for truth transgressed into a need which was tantamount to his sanity. However, the conscious yearning for security and reassurance, even with the aid of a professional, had eventually lost its merit. In the end, the desire of which he sought was never satiated.

In the days of his self-imposed exile, the repugnant smell of flesh and decay smothered the air with its incorrigible scent. It cast a shadow over his form, consumed by an embrace of desolation, of human stench, and of negligence. Almost every inch of the room was covered with dust, and only a beacon of light shone through the crack of a window, hitting the occupant’s features squarely at every peak of sunrise.

The bed dipped beneath John’s weight by a fraction, as he maneuvered his fatigued limbs on top of the covers. Wiping the sweat off his brows, he slid a gaze over the dimly lit room, his complexion pale and ashen. As the night grew, the breeze that swept across the room was filled with the tangy smell of rain; memories of the long forgotten slowly resurfaced.

Easing his body out from the sweat drenched sheets, the doctor briefly wavered on his feet, the strain on his back spoke volumes of the instinctive yearning to flee, however the soldier in him kept his feet rooted to the spot. From the periphery of his vision, a shadow fleeted past to a corner, receding into the darkness as swiftly as his eyes could blink. The urgency to flee remained but John steeled his resolve, for the desire to indulge his curiosity with a veiled promise of danger, outweighed his initial flight response.

Descending down a set of staircases, John traversed through the streets of London in a haze. The sound of rain pitter pattering muffled the noises of the city, its blaring lights and the splashes of water barely penetrated through his train of thoughts. Save for the shadow that flickered on the corner of his eye, it propelled the doctor to step through a blanket of white.

As if led by an invisible force, John altered his course, cerulean hues swept across the dew in a desperate feat to latch his sights on the retreating figure. Unbeknownst to him, the shade cleared the cloudy vapor obscuring his path. The image clearer and the engraved name more vivid, John was stricken with horror at the sleek black headstone emerging from his view. Hit by a sudden wave of emotion, John pressed a shaking hand over his mouth, eyes glistening from unshed tears at the vestiges that which persuaded the repressed memories out of its refuge.

Unbidden from his lips, the words flowed freely— familiar and painful. It had left an imprint in his mind, willing him to never forget. “D-don’t be…,” murmured John to the solemn grave, his voice low while suppressing the urge to collapse. The niggling pain on his chest was becoming obtrusive and though, it was easily disregarded, his stare never faltered from the headstone that which stood in isolation from the rest. Broken by its mere sight, John felt the desire to repeat the words uttered that very day, the memory of his plea searing through his mind, echoing with clarity. “Just stop this… “

As short sobs wracked his body, John’s chest convulsed beneath the thin layer of his shirt, the noises muffled behind a pair of hands and the tears spilled over his cheeks like a broken dam. The pleas remained unheard, filling his heart with insurmountable grief.

Extending a hand to his own pallid features, John wiped off the wet tracks that littered across sunken cheeks. The muscles on his legs trembled with tension as something seized him unawares. The compulsion to flee had returned, invoking a need to straighten his composure as if it were poised to strike. Scarcely sensing a shift to his left, John pivoted on the balls of his feet, a glimpse of a silhouette flittering across the terrain, before it dissipated behind a line of trees that loomed ahead and away from sight.

For a brief moment, John merely watched the retreating figure with anticipation. The flash of blue and black gleaned a kind of familiarity which he chose to disregard. With a sudden burst of energy, the doctor sprang into motion, the secretion of adrenaline pumping into his veins as he elected his limbs to guide him through the mist.

Snatches of dark curls and the familiar flare of a blue coat drove John into a mad dash after the fleeing figure. The image struck a chord to his heart, invigorating his senses which narrowed his focus.

“Sherlock!” In the height of the chase, John let the name slipped past his lips, his face radiating a solemn intent to pursue his mark. And so the hunt surged on, the shadow becoming more erratic as it deviated from its main course.

“Sherlock! W-wait!” John couldn’t bear to lose sight of his friend. He had lost Sherlock once, twice was more than he could fathom. Leaping past hurdles, the scenery of the city blended into a myriad of hues, perceived quickly as irrelevant as John intently focused his gaze on the familiar outline. Even with the stretch of distance between them, the doctor was able to discern the sharp angular cheeks and the distinguishable curve of jaw that could only belong to his flat mate.

It was _him_ and John knew that no amount of distraction will interfere in his longing to reunite with a dear friend. Now that he reached to this culmination of events, the good doctor furtively believed that this was an opportunity to amend whatever lapse of judgment he concurred before Sherlock’s fall.

This time, at last, he could fix his aberration, and then Sherlock would live.

There would be no blood shed by the innocent, and the corrupt will ultimately perish. In his mind’s eye, Sherlock was the very epitome of justice and he, John, was the foothold of which his friend drew his stability, his conscience, and his humanity. 

Sherlock, Sherlock was alive. He could find a way to reach him. Find a way to change fate’s course.

So resolute was he to save Sherlock from his imminent death, that John failed to notice the familiar beep of his phone, nor did he took heed of the warning bells that rang through his consciousness, even when his pace slowed, weighed down by an unforeseen force at which point he came into a familiar juncture where his steps gradually came into a halt.

The mist had finally dissipated but the strong compulsion to flee had returned full force. John could no longer deny the sickening dread in the pit of his stomach, his intuition telling him that something was amiss. Before John could pinpoint the source of his uneasiness, a searing hot pain coursed through his side, the strain of the impact swiveled his vision andhis body was flung towards the concrete with a loud thud.

There was a small distinctive pop on his shoulder, expelling a shrill cry from his lips. The burn that spread across his side was excruciating and his lungs quivered inside his ribcage at each shaky release of breath. Through the haze of his desperation, John attempted to regain his bearings, but the sharp pulsation of pain rendered him temporarily catatonic.

The shadow that taunted his sight receded from view. The chase had reached an anti-climactic end. Only with this revelation did John remember what followed after the collision. Panic filled his mind so quickly that he failed to realize that he was still barred from movement. Try as he might, his limbs refused to concede his unspoken pleas **.** His body was pressed against the cold grit of dirt, locked in an infernal embrace—the mere thought sent a cold chill down his spine.

 

_Goodbye, John._

The loud resounding crack hit his hearing. The tears came in strong spurts, wrenching his waxen features into that of grief. The impending anguish gripped his heart, yet nary a sound wheezed past his mouth. Every inch of his body now seemed frozen in place. Eventually, the tears blurred his vision and the crack of sinew was discernible to his ears as a scream tore through the penetrating silence.

 

_There’s just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me._

_Don’t. Be. Dead._

John realized as the sound died down that the scream of panic came from his voice. Alone within the safe confines of his bedroom, the doctor expelled a sigh. The tension around his face loosening as the remnants of his nightmare faded into oblivion. But as the silence lapsed and the heavy feeling on his chest had failed to disperse, John could not get rid of the erroneous feeling that threatened to consume the scrapes of his sanity.

He was not alone. John knew as a profound sense of trepidation surged to reclaim him that the room harbored an uninvited guest. As the pressure on his back grew apparent, becoming increasingly laborious to breathe, John closed his eyes in a desperate feat for control. However, the sluggish response from his extremities distorted a fool’s paradise as a deathly calm pervaded the room.

Without warning, a resounding crack cut through the stillness like a well-sharpened blade. The atmosphere grew oppressive as John was overwhelmed by the urge to escape from the invisible bonds that kept him in place. Struck with a sudden sense of urgency, he desperately fought free.

But despite continued efforts, John foresaw the futility of his exertion. He lay rigidly on the sheets, the tremor in his hand had returned with the blood in his veins turning an icy cold as a distinct sound of movement reverberated through his ears.

_Crack._

Something… was trickling down the base of his skull. It was wet and thick. The stench of iron and rotting meat clogged his nostrils; the odor robust and vile. As the malodor lingered, the pressure on John’s lungs had not diminished, his back creaked under an imperceptible weight, pinning him to the bed as if shackled by metal chains.

_Drip._

_Drip._

A waft of air grazed his nape, leaving a cool trail along the curve of his jaw which dripped noiselessly into the sheets. Averting his gaze, a soundless scream ripped through John’s vocal chords, the sight of the coagulated blood that formed a scarlet crown, pooled beneath the cushions underneath his skull.

_Drip._

_Drippp…_

John froze, the fear that coiled in his gut was perceptible and the pounding of his heartbeat— deafening.  The distinctive sounds of ‘crack’ and ‘drip’ echoed fervently through the walls. John grew hysterical as he writhed from his bonds. His breathing grew erratic as he attempted to dislodge the pressing weight on his back. But he received no response, even as the minutes stretched, the crushing feeling on his chest amplified drastically in proportions.

Finally, as if sensing that its hold had reached a precipice, the grip loosened, letting a miniscule amount of air to card through his lungs. There was a clamor behind him, as if a corpus had stretched languidly across his back, secreting ooze that seeped through the fabric with its putrid odor.

There was an earsplitting wail that roused John from his stupor, the ensuing noise— the popping of cartilage and the tearing of sinew grew in magnitude. Flecks of bone and flesh spattered across his nape, soaking his shirt with its gore residue. The silence that which preceded the bedlam was fleeting. ~~~~

Yet, the silence was brief. A shadow loomed over John’s shoulder, the bed frame grunting beneath _its_ heaving mass. Mustering the temerity to peek from the corner of his eye, John was severely rewarded by a grotesque scene of a gaping maw congested with succulent flesh and dripping fluids.

_Its_ face drew near, the glinting dentures that were thick with cruor and sputum scrupulously nuzzled his skin. The contorted visage permeated an odor so potent that John feared that his insufflation was vitiated with each intake of air. Stricken with fear, the hair follicles along his arms stood in alarm as the compulsion to recoil was too cogent.

A bony limb attached itself to John’s cheek, leaving a dark trail of viscous matter on its wake. _Its_ skin began to rip, revealing blanched fractures of ivory that deepened and stretched further across the angles of _its_ face.

_Crackkk._

_The thing_ tried to speak but a gush of fluid strangled its speech, froth dribbling down a gaping orifice as the blather of noises magnified. “Dj—juu…,” it murmured, regurgitating a heap of sludge that sprayed across John’s face, a glistening line of saliva connecting between them.

“Ddjuuu…”

John’s eyes grew impossibly large when the bloodstained lips were a hair’s breadth away from his own. He was teeming with sweat, beads of perspiration peppered across his temple. The incessant murmurs that spewed from its mouth, was a mess of jumbled words and disjointed syllables.

“DJuu-aauuuuu…”

The string of mumbles had not subsided. But as soon as he recognized a pattern in its speech, John’s pallor was drained with color.

That voice… No… it couldn’t be…

“Dj-djau-unnnnnn…”

“Djauuuuuuuwnnnnn…”

 

_John._

John belted out a scream, the dorsal muscles that spanned across his back quivered underneath its bulk as pain ripped through his body, twisting his limbs in a suspended animation.

The world turned into molten gray, engulfing John with a thick layer of gunk exuding from decaying flesh. _Its_ heady scent pervaded the air in his lungs. Thereafter, a cool touch glided across his chin, skimming past the ridge of his brows and then pausing along the curvature of his lips.

_Its_ whetted teeth suckled on the rosy flesh as it slipped a sinuous tongue into the gaping cavern. A pungent smell wafted through John’s nose as something moist spilled into his mouth, forcing the thick liquid down his throat and clogging his lungs. John fought the urge to retch and he struggled from _its_ iron grip as sinewy arms engulfed him in a parody of a lover’s embrace.

He found that he could no longer breathe. The sweetness of slumber filled his ears.

 

 

The nightmares stopped. 


End file.
